


Fern

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: Tom Petty (Musician)
Genre: Car Accidents, F/M, Injury, Injury Recovery, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Tom Petty and the reader making love for the first time since some tragedy (car accident? surgery?) that left her physically scarred and feeling self-conscious'It's hard to strike a balance between the two things.





	Fern

As he kisses your neck gently, you close your eyes, and try to feel as if you are in your body again. You haven’t for a few months – since the silver scars that spiral up your right hip and rib were angry and red and bloody.

_He changed your dressings without complaint every day and held you like you were going to fall off of the planet every night._

You just couldn’t feel it.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly, and you nod slowly, looking at him. “We don’t have to do this. I… I can live without this. I can do anything for you to feel comfortable, babe.”

“I’m just… adjusting,” you whisper, and he strokes your cheek.

“If you feel uncomfortable – for even a moment – you tell me, and we stop. Until you’re happy. If that’s a minute, a day, a goddamn year, we stop, because you are the most important thing to me,” he whispers, and you feel tears prick your eyes. You never thought sex would feel like this with him – not carefree and easy and, if not meaningless, then…  _free_ , but heavy and anxious but… something that means everything. Something you need.

“I just want to feel at home in my body again,” you whisper, and he nods, stubble scratching your cheek as he kisses along your jaw tenderly. You close your eyes, and try to connect with where he’s touching – one hand resting on your left hip, gently. His mouth on your neck, kissing your throat – that’s fine. You just… don’t know how you’ll feel.

_He changed your dressings every day. He saw it at its worst._

_But there was still a chance to heal then, wasn’t there?_

_This… is as good as it’s going to get._

He gently reaches for your buttons, and presses his lips to your ear – ‘May I?’ – and you wonder why he can’t look you in the eye. Why his lips have been on your neck, and not your mouth – you pull back, and he looks at you. His eyes flicker downwards, and you tilt your head.

“Why?” You know he knows, and he takes a deep breath.

“Because if I do anything to hurt you – if I cause more pain? On top’a this? I don’t know what I’ll do.” His tone is hurt, and you realise that you were not the only person injured in this – some of your wounds are physical, but both of you were wounded a lot deeper than that. “If I can’t protect you from what happened? I can do my damn best to do it from myself.”

You put your finger under his chin, and realise that you feel connected – where  _you_  touch  _him_ , you feel real. You kiss him, and your eyes flutter open after a minute to see him looking at you, pain buried deep in that blue sadness.

“You may,” you say, quietly, and he kisses you back, gently unbuttoning your shirt. You tense as it falls open – you’re used to it being opened for check-ups, for bandage replacements, but he gently places his hand over your still-smooth stomach.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, and you nod. “May I?”

You nod again, and focus on stroking his back, focusing on his warmth – it makes you feel so safe, so protected, especially when he’s on top of you like this, that when he pulls your shirt aside, you barely flinch. His fingers stop, gently running over your scars, and you look down.

They’re silvery, which you heard somewhere means they’re shrinking – fern patterns from your thigh to just under your breast. It wasn’t the accident that did it, you think quietly. It was the licking of the flames – hot, biting. Not like his soft, gentle warmth. You think you can do this.

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s healed so well.” His voice is soft, reverential, but you can’t see that. You remember what it looked like – not the burns but prior. Your soft, smooth skin that you moisturised so carefully and kept so soft. You shake your head, and he nods, pushing himself up and settling his head next to the scars, kissing them gently. “It really has.”

“I wish it was normal,” you whisper, and he looks up at you so sadly.

“I know, babe. But I’m just glad you’re here. I’m glad this is still here for me to kiss.” He smiles, and your heart jumps a little – he pulls your shirt aside, and then unbuttons your jeans. “Are we still okay?”

“We’re doing fine,” you say, voice a little hoarse and weak, but you stroke your fingers through that golden hair a little for reassurance, and he pulls down your jeans. This is where the most damage was done. The fuel pooled around your hip where you were lying, and you know that it looks… bad down there. It must. You cringe away from your own flesh, or at least, you try – he stops, and strokes you gently.

“Beautiful,” he says, in wonder, and you shake your head.

“It’s horrid,” you whisper, and he kisses you.

“It’s skin. It’ll change. We’ll find out ways to make it better and even if we don’t, you are still the most goddamn beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he says, and the conviction in his voice finally brings the tears to your eyes. You exhale, and look down at your leg for the first time in two or three months.

It’s gnarled - it reminds you a little of tree bark, but with that fascinating fern-leaf pattern that you thought only came with electrocution. His thumb runs over it, and you wince again, but not quite as hard. It doesn’t hurt – it’s a little numb, to be honest, but the way he touches it makes you feel anxious and safe at the same time.

“Is it weird?” you ask, and he looks at you.

“It’s different. It’s not what was there before,” he says, slowly, and you swallow. “But it’s not awful. And it doesn’t make me love you any less. Hell, to me, this shows how brave my lady is.” He gently pulls down your panties, and drops them on the floor. “Won’t need those for a while.”

“Why?” you ask curiously, but he’s already spreading your thighs – he takes hold of your hips, and the fact that, despite the fact he isn’t being rough, he’s not being delicate with you – acting as if you’re going to shatter if he grips too hard – goes a long way to settling your mind and stomach, and then his mouth is on you, and you close your eyes. This is normal. That’s the point – it’s not some magical healing process, your skin has not been healed by his touches. It won’t ever be, you think, and though sadness washes over you and you still feel tears drying on your cheeks, your mind can be. To a point where your leg is just… your leg. You hope.

He licks you, and you gasp, feeling his fingers dig in a little.

“It’s fine, keep going,” you say, firmly, and he does so, lifting you to his mouth to keep licking you out – you relax against him, and pray that you realise he doesn’t see you as damaged or other now. He seems to be just as enthusiastic as always; his thumbs run over your hips again, and you wonder if he’s feeling the difference – but then pleasure lances through you as he licks you long and slow, and you gasp.

Maybe, even if he is feeling the difference, it isn’t so bad. There was a time when he couldn’t read your body like a book – you have to crane your metaphysical neck to see that time in the distant past, but you remember what it felt like. It felt like… this. Nowhere near as intense, but like this… you realise you’re drifting away from the feeling, and you touch his hair, closing your eyes to focus on it. It still feels just as good as it ever did, and you pant, chest heaving as he kisses the inside of your thigh.

“Sweetheart…” he murmurs into your skin, and you grind your hips up. “Oh, you like this, huh?” He winks at you, and you smile at him, grin growing wider as his does, and then he goes back down and rolls his tongue over you slowly, making you whimper.

“God, Tom.” You pull his hair tightly as pleasure wells up and then recedes again, ridiculously close to flooding you completely but not  _quite_  there. “Keep going, please…” He flickers his tongue over you, over and over, sending shivers through your skin, and you inhale, feeling it build before it washes over you in heat and pleasure, leaving you moaning his name as you arch up from the bed against his mouth. It feels so good – to burn in something other than pain, to remember that you are connected to your body, to feel his mouth on you even as you come, and you realise you’re probably pulling his hair out as you grip it.

“God,” he mutters, before pushing himself up and grinning, kissing you. “See? It’s all still fine.” You nod, and hold him tightly to you as he strokes your face. “Honey, you think this is all, we are far from done. Nothing could stop me lovin’ you.”

You exhale fondly, and he kisses your neck.

“Especially not when you look as good as this,” he says, and you blush.


End file.
